The Life and Times of SianyB Short short stories and other items of brevity

I hadn’t always been scared of mirrors. Apparently as a small girl I would regularly stare at my reflection for hours, pulling different faces to see which ones I liked best. Pouting was the one which featured in most photos of the time, so I guess that was the winner. Still, that was before the times I can remember. All of my actual memories are dominated by hiding from the looking glass, which is easy now I live on my own. My tiny flat is a mirror free zone and, as no landlord would let me live in a garage, I’ve just blocked up all the windows and dirtied up anything which threatens a reflection.

They used to think it was a form of body dysmorphia, which resulted in many years of everyone telling me I was beautiful. Then they realised that I was happy having my photo taken and could look at my image long enough to know they were lying about my looks. Well-meaning relatives would try and trick me with flashes of hand mirrors and twists towards blacked out windows. I just shut my eyes. They weren’t to know that if I didn’t protect myself, I could fall in and never come back.

Sometimes, when they’re all nagging me and getting hysterical, I think how nice that could be. Just reverse everything, tumble through quietly and never ever come back.

The date had not been going well. First of all, he was wearing a lilac shirt, which was basically lavender. Her grandmother, who’d only died a few years ago, had demanded lavender at her funeral. They hadn’t actually complied, as lilies were clearly more suitable, but it wasn’t the point. He was draped in the dying wishes of her beloved Nana and there was no discreet way of telling him. 

Then, he greeted her with a “hi there!” Did he think he was a cowboy? Why “there”? As opposed to what? Her location was not really in question at this point. Things slid further down a hill of disasters as he ordered lobster (her Dad’s second favourite, thank you Mr Freud) and asked if she had any brothers or sisters (a sore point, and one she didn’t feel comfortable discussing).

Halfway through the main course she clattered down her fork, held up her hands and cried STOP. The oaf looked confused, then uncomfortable as she politely explained that the night was an unmitigated disaster, that he had embarrassed himself beyond question and would he please go and get her coat so they could go home, as quickly as possible, and make passionate, meaningless love.

She rolled her eyes as he stammered for the bill. Men, eh?

The back of her hand stung where he’d hit it. All those years, all those arguments and now he’d finally turned to violence. It was such a shame that, when it came, it had been on her manicured paw after she broke that stupid cup. He’d just smacked her like a disobedient bloody pet. You can’t go to a refuge with a slightly red hand - she couldn’t even mention it to friends without it becoming another boring whine. She wouldn’t be a hero, or a martyr or a wide-eyed victim of her own trust.

She sighed, disappointment smarting more than her pride, and prayed for cancer.

- Fine, I’ll take it to my grave.

- You talk about death a lot.

- You talk about shoes a lot.

- Shoes don’t make people lonely

(Extract from longer work: The Transfusion)

The robots were sitting round, chatting about the stars, when it was pointed out that there was a stench in the air. It wafted around the robots, stroking their bodies gently so they forgave the stench its stink. The stench gratefully settled into the discussion, shuddering gently when someone mentioned heaven.

Eventually the tiniest robot addressed the stench:

 Why do you keep jittering, Mr Stench? Don’t you like the idea of heaven? Or are you one of those who don’t believe robots should be allowed in? We should just be allowed to rust in a field, dumped in a pile once our time’s up?

The stench swirled and whipped around the robots, his stink collecting into an acrid liquid which burned through metal bodies like vengeance itself. In their panic, the robots crashed blindly into each other, screaming in the knowledge that it had all been a pointless journey to nothing.

Once his work was done, the stench drifted away, exuding the righteous anger of the violently wrathful, expanding with the memory of every death in his honour.

The tiny robot creaked open one eye, and looked at the destruction around him. His final words, before rusting forever in a field, echoed the broken dreams of all robots fooled by history.

              Crap. God really stinks.

The End

Walking was the thing she always did. Glancing in the shop windows on her way down the road, looking at her reflection and waiting for it to change. Did hot girls do this? Or were their minds free to look at other people, knowing they’d ticked the box of their own beauty? Did old men do this? Or were their minds free to look at other people, knowing they’d ticked the box of living life? She wasn’t sure, but it was nice waiting for change. Imagine dreading it, she thought, quickening her pace. Imagine things only being able to get worse, she thought, straightening her back. Imagine not being me, she thought, holding up her head.

But then she did and it was back to walking and waiting for her reflection to change again and again and again.

There was a man called Mr Leonard Smyth, who was one of those gents who took great pleasure in telling people to cheer up. Strangers on the bus, harassed mothers and mardy looking students were all gently ordered to turn frowns upside down before they made the clouds cry. Luckily for him, he was a marcher and rarely heard the muttered swearing which tumbled in his wake.

One day, Mr Leonard Smyth was woken to a phone call, briskly informing him of the sudden, painful death of his mother. In those moments, his spirit cracked open along the fine lines of a previously broken heart. He plodded into town slowly, nodding sympathetically at his previous victims as he made his way slowly towards the funeral directors.

A tall fellow, made of backbone and efficiency, strode past him, tapped Mr Smyth on the shoulder and advised him to cheer up because, dear boy, it might never happen.

And so, I’m writing this from prison. An apology to all those wearing sadness on their faces when there was nowhere else to put it. You were right, you unfortunate souls, and I was a fool. So sorry about that.

Yours truly,

Leonard

X

“I’m sleepy,” said the sleepy girl, whining at the moon.

“Well go to sleep then, dear,” sighed the sky.

“I’m waiting,” she replied, glowering at the stars.

“What for?” heaved the heavens, rippling like the sea.

“To stop being sleepy,” yelled the tired girl, punching at the everything.

“Oh, do be quiet dear,” called back the above, “or we’ll bring you up here forever and ever and ever. Close your eyes and count to ten and think of lovely things, amen.”

So she closed her eyes and wriggled to three, then snuggled to six, then drifted to nine and…ten.

                                     (Apology to a forgotten Tumblr)

You’ve been away for years. You know that, don’t you?

Laughing? Really? You think it’s ok to come back in here and laugh? Chuckle away those cold old months we watched, our noses pressed against a window you erected then abandoned. We can still see you smirking, standing there on the other side of the smudged pane. You may be feeling all heroic for coming back but we still haven’t forgiven you.

Well, lady, we have revenge in store. We all left. Every single one of those hopeful companions you built up all those forevers ago. You’re talking to yourself now, imagining what we’d say, like you deserved any such loyalty in the first place.

Crazy bitch. You know that, don’t you?

The helicopter whisked through the crowd, whipping heads off shoulders and spraying them around the streets. She pointed out to The Pilot that it looked like confetti and he grunted a laugh. It was the first time she’d made him laugh and it made her rather proud. A face splatted against her window: its shocked eyes met hers for a moment before sliding and falling back to the bloodied earth. He’d muttered something she thought was “cheeky” which struck her as incredibly funny considering how many other things the man had to think about.

She was still laughing when he veered the helicopter into an office block. As she realised what was happening it struck her that this was quite the oddest first date she’d ever been on but, by golly, she liked a man who knew his own mind.